


Until The Real Thing Comes Along

by Teaotter



Category: CSI: Las Vegas
Genre: Flirting, M/M, Obsession, Plotty, Voyeurism, Workplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-26
Updated: 2006-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-04 05:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teaotter/pseuds/Teaotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Greg," Gil says, exasperated, "if I want to know what you're wearing, I can check the security tapes from the lab."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until The Real Thing Comes Along

Greg spots the police cruiser's flashing lights ahead in the dark, and grins to himself as he pulls off the road. Maybe it's just another hit-and-run in dullsville, but he still gets a thrill from field work. Every. Single. Time. You never knew when a simple case'd grow horns and start running around on you.

He's gotta get a good one sooner or later. Maybe tonight. Or maybe it'll at least be something interesting enough to keep Sara at the scene, instead of her leaving him to do the scut work again. Tape lifting for six hours, or mapping shell casings. Yeah, seniority sucks. He's got plans, dammit, _plans_. He needs to get to the lab for more than reports and assignments. Or get assigned to a case with Grissom. That'd work, too. But he and his plans have been waiting all week, and he's starting to wonder if the universe is just dead set against him on this one.

Wouldn't be the first time.

Sara is prowling around a black Toyota with its lights still on and the driver's side door open. An oil slick under the back of the car glints briefly in the bright scene lights before sliding back into shadow. Greg wonders if that's why the driver abandoned the car. But that's an assumption, and Grissom always says it's bad to start with assumptions. So Greg decides to take a look at the body and check in with David.

"He had some internal bleeding, as well as a nasty crack to the skull. Either one could've killed him. We'll know more at the autopsy. You want to check his wallet?"

Greg makes himself look -- really _look_ at the body for a moment. There's always some point where you look over and see a person, a dead _boy_ and not just a body and a case to be solved. It happens every time, and he figures he might as well get it over with at the beginning. Give Ramon DaSilva his minute of respect before giving him justice.

The others always seem to gravitate toward the body first, too, so maybe they feel it. Greg hasn't asked. Maybe next time he's drinking with Warrick. Maybe not, though.

He gives himself a minute to start seeing it all as a crime scene, to look at the body and the way it's lying on the asphalt. Not a lot of blood. Traces of dirt and gravel on the front of the boy's hoodie.

"Was he moved?" he asks.

"I don't think so," David responds. "Lividity is fixed, and consistent with this position. I think he rolled from the impact. It happens."

Most of the clue action would be over at the car, so Greg joins Sara by the driver's side door.

"Look at the seat," she says, still leaning under the steering wheel. "I think the driver was probably female, from where the seat is. Or a very short man."

The seat's set too far forward for him, that's for sure. "Maybe they hit the seat lever on their way out of the car."

"I don't think so. The lever's all the way under the seat." Sara stands up and waves his attention back into the car. "And look -- there's blood on the steering wheel."

"There's also a blood smear on the door," Greg points out.

"I think maybe she was hurt." Sara steps back, frowning, and looks down for traces of blood on the ground. "Do you smell that? Smells like blood."

"There's not enough blood in the car for that smell." But it's definitely there. It's not very strong, but it's stronger than it should be. "Leaving the door open would've dispersed any scent inside the car."

They both begin to prowl around the car, trying to track the blood smell. With even a faint wind, smells are pretty elusive outside, but still. It has to be near the car, or they wouldn't have smelled it in the first place.

It's stronger toward the back of the car, and Greg suddenly remembers that oily glint he'd seen. "You know," he says, dropping to one knee to shine his flashlight behind the tire, "how sometimes a car gets in an accident, and you can't really see any damage til you look underneath?"

The pool shimmers red-brown on the asphalt. With a soft plink, a drop falls into it from the underside of the car.

Sara shines her flashlight up from the puddle. "This car is bleeding."

They get one of the cops to pop the trunk. Curled up in the trunk is a dark-haired man, covered in blood.

"Well," Sara says, "now we know why she ran."

*****

Gil looks up from his desk when Greg walks into his office. Greg is swinging a brown paper bag in one hand and grinning in the manner he uses just before he plays a practical joke. Or breaks a case. Both are very self-satisfied smiles, and Gil hasn't been able to determine the difference between those two facial expressions. Yet. He leans back in his chair and embraces serenity.

"I hear your hit-and-run sprouted another body." It's a neutral opening, and one Greg is likely to have anticipated.

"A-yup," Greg says brightly and leans one jean-clad hip on the edge of the desk, barely missing the stack of forensic journals Gil uses to prop up his pencil-holder. "And according to his wallet, the body in the trunk was the registered owner of the car."

"If his wallet was intact, then the motive wasn't robbery. And car-jackers don't take the time to put the body in the trunk," he points out.

"Precisely. So either our missing driver picked the wrong car for her joyride -- or she was driving like a maniac on her way to dump the body."

"Do you have any leads on the driver?"

Greg shrugs, shifting the paper bag onto his knee. "Sara has some prints from the car that don't match the db; she's running them through AFIS now."

"So if that's not evidence," Gil asks pointedly, "what is it?"

Greg's grin gets brighter. "I brought you lunch."

Ah, the joke then. He files that datapoint away and braces himself for the punchline. "Thank you Greg, but I brought my own lunch today."

"Well. You're lunch kinda accidentally got thrown in the garbage." Greg waggles his eyebrows. It's an exaggeration, meant to convey humorous sincerity, or to hide sincerity through humor. "Man cannot live by sandwich alone. So. Lunch."

"_Accidentally_?" Maybe Greg is trying to make up for something he did. In the break room? "Greg, how did my lunch end up in the garbage?"

"Don't ask." Greg plunks the bag down on the desk. "But it worked out, because I brought you lunch, and now you have to eat it."

Greg starts swinging his leg back and forth, watching expectantly, and Gil knows he's trapped. He doesn't see anyone lurking outside his office, so it appears that public humiliation isn't on the agenda. This time. On the other hand, there is still the sack to check.

Which, upon closer examination, seems to contain a generic metal dining fork, one white cloth napkin, a Tupperware container of rigatone in pesto sauce, and another with a green salad. The food smells genuine. It's not food he's ever seen Greg eat, so it seems plausible that Greg hadn't just substituted his own lunch. All of which is disconcerting, because Gil was sure that Greg was setting him up. He adds it to his collection of his own misunderstandings of the social whims of human society.

And smiles at Greg. "You really brought this for me, didn't you?"

"Uh-huh." Greg smiles back.

"And what brought on this impulse toward culinary offering?"

"I found out that some of the guys from the lab really look up to me, now that I'm working in the field and all. And I was thinking that I really look up to you, and I thought I'd show my appreciation."

"Thus, lunch." Gil is pleased to have this explained. He takes a bite of the pasta, which is quite good --

"And a blow job. If you're interested."

\-- and chokes. He couldn't possibly have heard that correctly. Or incorrectly. Or - ah. More teasing. Greg was always flirting with everyone. He could play along.

Or not. "Did Catherine put you up to this?"

"Catherine? No, of course not. But if you think I ought to ask her instead --"

The babbling helps him find his footing. "Greg. You know that fraternization between a superior and his subordinate are strictly prohibited by lab rules, right?"

"Yeah. But it's a pretty stupid rule, right?" He cocks his head to the side. "I mean, if you follow that rule to the letter, I can't even bring you lunch."

Which he'd been eating. Trapped again. "You know there's a certain amount of leeway given for simple socialization," he says a bit desperately, "but I'm pretty sure that - ahrm - _personal_ services are outside of the bounds."

This makes Greg laugh and lean a little further over the desk and into Gil's space. "C'mon Grissom. What's the difference between breaking the rule, and _breaking_ the rule?"

That's a good question. A very good philosophical question which has nothing to do with imagining that laughing mouth wrapped around his cock, tight and wet, and -- "I'm... not sure," he manages weakly. "Perhaps you _should_ ask Catherine."

"Ask Catherine what?"

Gil hadn't seen Catherine walking by. He hadn't seen anyone walking by. No, to be ruthlessly honest he hadn't noticed that Greg had left the door open, and anyone could have been walking in on this conversation. On Greg offering - or joking - or --

"Uhm..."

Greg seems as non-plussed as Gil feels, which is strangely heartening. And allows his mind to return to its usual patterns. "Greg and I were discussing some changes he proposed to the lab's fraternization rules."

"Yeah," the younger man chimes in. "I mean, right now, I can't even get Grissom a birthday present without breaking the rules."

Catherine frowns. "Technically, maybe, but no one's ever cared about that --"

"But Ecklie _could_ come down on me about it." Greg picks up speed as he gets more comfortable with the lie. He also, finally, gets down from Gil's desk.

"I suppose..." Catherine gives him a dubious look. "But you don't have to worry about that right now, Greg. Grissom's birthday doesn't come up for months."

Greg laughs. Gil hopes Catherine doesn't hear the edge of nervousness in it. "Yeah, but every day is somebody's birthday."

He turns it into an exit line and pushes past Catherine into the hall.

She turns her dubious look on Gil. "It's not Greg's birthday, is it?"

"I have no idea."

*****

"Oh my God."

The woman at the front door of the tidy ranch house responds predictably to the news of her husband's death. Gil wonders when his sympathy began waiting on the evidence. It might be useful to be able to watch a woman cry and feel nothing but the curiosity of an investigator searching for clues, but it isn't very kind.

Of course, the truth is never kind, and truth is what they're looking for.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Hartley," Brass repeats, his sympathy professional. "May we come in?"

"Yes, of course." She lets them into the kitchen and pours coffee with shaking hands. "Please. Tell me. What happened?"

Gil gives a small nod to Greg, who eases off further into the house. They have a warrant for Malcolm Hartley's possessions, and the right to search his bedroom and garage. Technically, that's all they'll do here. Practically... as long as she's distracted, they can look around wherever they want.

"We're not sure yet," Brass hedges smoothly. "We'd like to ask you a few questions. What time did your husband usually come home from work?"

"Six o'clock."

"And he came home as usual yesterday?"

"Yes."

The kitchen is sunny and meticulously clean. Two placemats on the table in the breakfast nook, a bouquet of dried flowers in a white porcelain vase. An organizer for keys and mail next to the telephone. Some of the envelopes have the red edges commonly found on past-due notices. Gil looks again, and yes, most of the objects in the kitchen are moderately expensive, but none seem to be new. The Hartleys might be having money trouble.

Brass keeps Mrs. Hartley's attention with his questions and lets Grissom snoop around in the kitchen. "Was your husband with you all evening?"

"No. After dinner, we had a fight -- well, an argument, really." She wraps her arms around herself. "Oh my god, did he get in a car accident?"

"Not exactly."

Brass looks at him, so Gil speaks up. Gently. "Mrs. Hartley, we think your husband was murdered."

"Oh my god." She sinks into a chair and sets her mug down hard enough to spill coffee across her hand. She doesn't seem to notice. "No, not Malcolm -- he was so -- so --"

Brass hands her a napkin from the holder on the table and sits down in the opposite chair. "Mrs. Hartley. I know this is difficult for you. As best you can, tell me what happened yesterday after your husband came home."

"I -- went to the store," she says between sobs. "My car's in the shop, so I had to wait til he came home -- and he was mad that my car wasn't ready yet, he hated it when I had to borrow his car. He loves that car -- loved that car." Her words tumble over themselves, faster and faster until she chokes up.

Brass gives her another napkin, and a minute to get herself together. "And then what happened?"

"We had dinner. It was bad, we started arguing about money, and when was I going to get another job, and --"

"Did you argue often?"

"It's been happening a lot lately." She glances around, and Gil sees her eyes land on the mail organizer. "I quit my job at the Tangiers two months ago, and things have been a little tight since then. But nothing really bad, before last night."

"What happened?"

"He stormed out." She looks pleadingly at Brass. "Just got in his car and drove off. That was the last time I saw him."

Many people fall back on cliches when they are nervous, or upset. Or lying. Mrs. Hartley's story is plausible, and it gives them details to check against the evidence.

"When was that?"

"Seven-thirty? I'm... not sure."

Brass nods and slides his notebook back into his pocket as he stands up. He pauses and looks at Mrs. Hartley sympathetically. "Do you think he was seeing someone else?"

"No!" She seems more angry than startled for a moment. She starts wringing the napkin in her hands. "No. I don't think so -- I -- why would you ask that?"

"It's a routine question," Brass reassures her. "Any problems at work that he mentioned? Gambling?"

They wind down so that Gil can take her fingerprints and a DNA sample. She doesn't ask why.

The house, like the kitchen, is tidy, well-decorated, and impersonal in a way that suggests the residents prefer to keep a facade between themselves and the world. The guest bathroom is spotless, and the laundry room shows no sign of recent use. Gil doesn't find any sports equipment or other objects similar to the wooden bat Robbins had suggested as a murder weapon.

He finds Greg in the couple's bedroom, carefully photographing the room and its contents. The dresser has a few personal items, but still very neatly arranged, formal. The photographs are all classically posed studio shots. An organized mind, then, and no relaxation of boundaries even in their shared personal space. Very likely this couple kept secrets from one another.

"I notice the missus has blonde hair."

"Hmm?" Gil's attention slips from the room to Greg. He's wearing his vest pulled over an orange t-shirt with a faded logo of some sort. The clothes suggest a personality unconventional and outgoing, with a willingness to go along with the rules, but only as far as required. The fact that no one reprimands him for his gear suggests he has an understanding of how far those rules can be pushed.

Greg's smile widens as he watches, and his stance shifts. His arms unclose, camera dangling, showing a lack of discomfort or personal protectiveness.

"Sara thinks the black hair she found in the car belonged to the driver," Greg goes on. "Since Mrs. Hartley's a blonde, that probably rules her out."

Gil takes a deep breath and pretends to study the nearest surface. Work. He needs to think about work. "You spoke with Sara?"

"That's what cell phones are for."

"Did she find anything else at the crash site?"

"Some footprints leading away. Size six."

Gil tells himself that it's a hazard of the job, this inability to stop viewing the world in puzzle pieces and evidence. He's tried to tell himself that the others feel it too, that they would understand if he told them. He's fairly sure he's lying to himself, but it isn't a lie he has to investigate.

"Print Mrs. Hartley's shoes," he says, making his way to the door. "Then start bagging her husband's belongings. I'll be in the garage."

"Will do." Greg takes it as the dismissal it was meant to be, and crouches down by the closet to examine the shoes.

Which leaves Gil looking at the curve of Greg's shoulder under the t-shirt, the line of his back, the fold of his leg behind the knee. The position doesn't _mean_ anything, it doesn't matter. But the bone of Greg's ankle is pressing against his sock, with just that thin material between it and being naked above the top of his shoe. Gil wants, very badly, to put his thumb just there and press the sock aside. To circle the bones with his fingers.

"Wow." Greg is staring up at him, his hands braced against the carpet.

_Trapped_ "Did -- did you find something?"

He watches the flush climb up Greg's neck. "Ah. No."

"Keep looking."

Gil gets his heartbeat and breathing back under control on his way to the garage. If Greg were a woman -- and not his employee -- Gil would know what to do. It never worked out in any significant way, but he has enough experience with dating that he can usually manage the first one or two.

He has no script for suddenly discovering a lust for his male subordinate. At a crime scene.

He tells himself that, like any mystery, he can investigate. Between cases. He can put it away. But working the same scene means occasionally being in the same room, and he finds himself staring helplessly whenever they come together.

Thankfully, the warrant is narrow enough that collecting the evidence at the house is a relatively short process. Greg doesn't seem to notice his intermittent faux pas. In fact, the younger man is practically bouncing, filled with energy, moving to some internal rhythm and humming as he works.

It continues when they return to the lab. Greg walks off toward Trace with Mr. Hartley's clothes, greeting people left and right with loud enthusiasm. He slings one arm over Nick's shoulder as they catch up on another case.

And Gil can't stop staring. He tries to read in his office, but he can't make himself close the door. The third time Greg passes by, Gil gives in and simply follows him around the lab. His impulses are seldom so compulsive, but he can recognize the symptoms. He won't get any work done until he understands... He's not sure what he's supposed to be looking for. So he just looks.

It becomes clear that Greg knows. Whenever Greg catches him watching -- less often than he should, statistically, which suggests a certain complicity on Greg's part -- he just grins harder. Moves a little more smoothly. The evidence certainly suggests that Greg likes him, perhaps more than is appropriate in a work setting.

Gil knows his behavior is inappropriate. Watching Greg through the glass partitions makes him understand why the language for sexual harassment regulations is so vague. This is invasive, and if it weren't welcome, it would be very, very wrong. Even with Greg's tacit approval, it feels transgressive.

He has no idea what he can do about it.

The next time he turns the corner, Sara catches up to him. "Grissom. Do you think Mrs. Hartley knew her husband was having an affair?"

Gil drags his mind back to the Hartley case and tries to recall what Sara has been doing. "You got the DNA report?"

She nodded. "No match for the vaginal component we found on the body."

"So he leaves his house around seven-thirty --"

"-- according to his wife --" she reminds him.

"-- has sex with a woman who is _not_ his wife, and is dead by ten-thirty."

Sara nods again and looks pleased. "I was thinking, that's not really long enough to pick up a woman at a bar, and it makes no sense for a hooker to kill him and take his car, but not his wallet. So I went looking at the website for his office. They've got some group photos of the staff. Look here." She shows him a grainy photo printout and points to a dark-haired woman standing next to Malcolm Hartley. "How tall would you say she is?"

"Considering the height of the car behind them, I'd say about five-two."

"_That_ is Dr. Leslie Chen. His partner."

*****

The interview room is sweltering that evening. The rooms are always too hot or too cold, at least from Greg's limited experience. And you never knew which you were gonna get.

It doesn't matter much to him today, though. Greg likes questioning the suspects almost as much as the field work. Well, _he_ wouldn't be questioning Dr. Chen, per se, since Sara'd told him in no uncertain terms to sit down, shut up, and let her and Ramirez handle it. Grissom had told her to follow up on the lead.

Grissom. _There's_ a thought worth a hot flash or two. He'd wondered what it would take to get a rise out of his boss, and figured blunt was the way to go. Though he'd really been expecting the 'not with your co-workers' talk to be the end of it, it's not like he hadn't imagined going through with it. Maybe even in the office, behind that big desk... After the way Grissom's eyes were following him last night, Greg figures he's got a free pass to let his imagination run wild.

But maybe not at work.

As soon as the doctor and her lawyer sit down, Sara starts right in. "How long have you and Dr. Hartley been sleeping together?"

The other woman flushes. "That's an insulting question --"

"Let's not waste each other's time, Dr. Chen," Sara cuts in. "Sex leaves traces on the body. Even when you wash. It won't take us long to match your DNA to the traces we found on Malcolm Hartley's body. We already have your fingerprints on the steering wheel of his car. We can place you at the scene where Ramon DaSilva was killed." She smiles coolly. "So my only question is, whether you knew Dr. Hartley was in the trunk when you took his car."

Dr. Chen's lawyer whispers in her ear, then turns back to them. "I want it noted on the record that my client is cooperating with the investigation."

When Ramirez agrees, the lady doctor nods. "Malcolm and I have been seeing each other for the last three months -- since my divorce. It was an occasional thing -- never serious." Her face is all calm, but her hands are shaking. "He never had any intention of leaving Sylvia, and I knew that. I was just... lonely."

"Did his wife know?" Ramirez asks gently.

"No, never," Dr. Chen replies. "Malcolm always said it'd tear her apart to find out he was cheating on her."

"But you did it anyway."

There's a lull in the conversation while Sara lets that little knife-twist sink in. In the silence, Greg has a sudden terrible urge to look into the mirror. He can _feel_ Grissom's eyes on him from the other side. Watching. He's so sure of it, he even turns his head to look, even though he can't see a damned thing but his own flushed reflection.

Sara shoots him an impatient look while Ramirez asks, "What happened two nights ago?"

It's embarrasing. He knows he seems pretty ADD compared to the rest of them, but his focus is usually better than this. Not that he can tell Sara _why_ he's acting like a complete nerf ball. He deliberately calls up Ramon DaSilva's face, and reminds himself that the lady on the other side of the table ran him over and left him for dead. And she might have killed the man in the trunk of the car. _Pay attention, Sanders._

"Malcolm called me. He told me he was coming over. He was upset -- he and Sylvia had been fighting again." Dr. Chen looks down at the table. "They've been having problems since Sylvia lost her job last month, arguing a lot. He just needed someone to talk to --"

"And -- ahem --"

"Yes, we had sex," she says angrily, glaring at Sara. It's a pretty good glare, even from where he's sitting. "And then he went home to his _wife_."

Ramirez breaks in before it can get ugly. "When was that?"

"About ten o'clock."

"If he left, how did you end up in his car?"

"I don't know. When I took out the trash, his car was still there. I thought he'd gone for a walk or something -- I tried calling his cell phone, but didn't get an answer. I got scared. I couldn't leave the car there."

Greg makes a note to get the cell phone records for Dr. Hartley and Dr. Chen. If she really did call him late that evening, it'd support her story.

"When did you go outside?"

"Eleven. I tried to reach him for the next half hour, then gave up." She shrugs at Ramirez. "I thought he must have caught a cab."

"So you drove off, intending to take it...?"

"-- to a parking lot downtown. I figured he could pick it up there later, once he'd cooled down. But then that boy came barreling into the street -- and I panicked. I couldn't afford to be seen there. So I ran." She adds quietly, "I called 9-1-1."

"Are you sure Dr. Hartley left?" Sara asks. "Did you hear his car?"

"No, but you don't always. It's a hybrid."

In the hall after the interview, Sara stops to compare notes. Greg keeps looking around. He's trying to be casual about it, but he wants to spot Grissom before Sara does.

"So what do you think?" he asks her.

"She could be telling the truth," she suggests. "None of the blood in the car matches the vic, and Chen's too short to hit him at the right angle if he were standing. Of course, he might've been sitting down, and are you expecting somebody?"

"Huh?" Damn. Not casual enough, he supposes. "No, just... Grissom seems to be around a lot lately, I kinda expected him here."

Sara's shaking her head before he even gets done speaking. "No, he's in a conference with the DA." She cocks her head at him. "But if you want me to tell him you spaced out in there --"

Greg glares back at her. She's probably teasing him. Probably. "That won't be necessary."

"I didn't think so. If we assume she's telling the truth... She says she saw Malcolm at ten; we know he was dead by ten-thirty --"

"-- and was snug as a bug in the trunk by eleven," Greg adds.

Sara nods. "That's not a lot of time."

"Malcolm couldn't have gone very far --"

"-- If he ever left."

*****

Grissom drops the case file into the filing cabinet with a sigh. The McCloskey case was intricate enough to hold his attention during the meeting with the District Attorney, but not on the walk back to the lab. He knows that Greg is out with Sara on the Hartley case, but it seems to make no difference to his sense of anticipation. He's looking forward to seeing Greg again, to feeling that -- _fascination_. He's not even sure whether he wants to approach Greg about it, or just let events transpire. But he finds the anticipation pleasant.

"Grissom." Catherine pokes her head into his office. "You got a minute?"

"Sure."

She comes in and closes the door behind herself. "How long have we known each other?"

Ah. Advice, then. At some point in their friendship, Catherine realized that she's considerably better with the social dynamics at the lab than he is. Gil wonders what he has, or hasn't, done this time. "Many a moon, and an age before."

She sighs. "Then listen to an old friend, Gil, and put a stop to it."

"A stop to what?"

"Don't play stupid with me." But she takes pity on his puzzlement. "You've been watching Greg like a hawk for the last twenty-four hours. I don't know what he did to hit your buttons, but you're staring at him like you want to eat him alive, and sooner or later someone's gonna notice."

The tone of her voice suggests... "You think I'm angry with him?"

"No," she drawls. "It looks... honestly, Gil..." Catherine studies his face for a moment, realization slowly widening her eyes. "Huh. I never knew you swung that way."

It's an admission Gil isn't sure he's ready to make, or if it's even true. But he's willing to let her assume it, if it makes this more... understandable. "Does it make you uncomfortable?"

Catherine laughs. "Actually, the thought of you dating _anyone_ makes me uncomfortable. Especially at the lab."

"Touche."

"But _Greg_?" She runs a nervous hand through her hair. "I know the boy flirts, but I really think --"

"He offered to blow me, Catherine," Gil interrupts. "I think that's beyond flirting."

Catherine gapes at him. "Damn," she says eventually. "Are you sure?"

"The evidence is suggestive."

"Damn," she says again, then grins at him. "And you turned him down?"

Somewhere, this conversation turned, but Gil isn't sure where or how. "Wasn't someone just telling me it was wrong?"

"Well, yes, but." She tosses her head and shrugs. "Well. Greg. _I_ wouldn't kick him out for eating crackers in bed, let me tell you. Sure, he's young, but --"

"He's too young."

"He's not too young to know what he wants. At his age, well, I certainly wasn't a virgin."

It's the argument he had in his head last night, and again on the way to the lab that afternoon. Gil finds it reassuring that he and Catherine agree on the parameters of the problem. "He's still my employee."

"Yeah, there is that." Catherine says. "So don't see him at work."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Take him out somewhere, buy him a few drinks. See what it looks like." Her face gets serious. "Just, please, Gil. If you decide to pursue it -- transfer him out of your section first. Or Ecklie'll have your hide."

This isn't the advice he expected. "Catherine. I can't --"

"Damn it, Gil, _I've_ been laid more recently than you. Trust me, it'll do you good." She laughs at the blush he can feel creeping up his face. "Let me see what I can do to cover your ass in the meantime." She's still laughing as she leaves.

That wasn't the advice Gil had been expecting from her, and he takes a moment to turn it around in his head. Catherine's judgment in these matters has been correct more often than his own in the past. Apparently, the age difference between him and Greg isn't socially insurmountable, and the relationship itself isn't inherently wrong. It's merely... inappropriate to conduct at work.

He has to admit that he _has_ been conducting it at work; apparently his observations were considerably more indiscreet than Greg's casual flirting. But he has to conclude that, if the relationship is acceptable at another location -- then another location can be found.

If Greg is amenable.

Gil closes the door to his office before dialing the phone.

"Sanders."

"Greg." He's not sure what to say next. Do you invite a man out to dinner the same way you invite a woman? He's not sure dating is even what he wants.

"Grissom." The signal crackles and whines. "Where are you?"

"At the lab," he responds automatically. "Why?"

Greg laughs. "No reason."

Gil wishes he'd planned this call better. "Where are you?"

"Sara and I are heading back to the girlfriend's place to check out the area." There's a pause, and noises Gil can fill in as traffic. "Aren't you gonna ask me what I'm wearing?"

"Excuse me?"

Another laugh. "Never mind."

"Greg," Gil says, exasperated, "if I want to know what you're wearing, I can check the security tapes from the lab." It's an idea that hadn't occurred to him before, but it blooms suddenly in his mind. The tapes are kept for weeks or even months at a time, and Gil has access to all of them.

"Ooh, kinky."

Greg's flirting with him again. Flirting is... considerably closer to the purpose of his call. "I wouldn't call it that."

The pause before Greg's reply is long enough that Gil wonders if the call was cut off. "What _would_ you call it?"

Gil takes a deep breath. "Research."

"_Damn_. Hang on," Greg says, and a moment later the background noise level drops. "Grissom? Are you -- are you actually _flirting_ with me?"

"I'm trying," Gil responds, both shaky and amused. "Let me know how I'm doing."

"You're doing fine." There's another pause. "Are you really gonna watch me on tape?"

"The thought has its appeal." And it does. The cameras at the lab record almost every room as well as the halls. Greg would be in at least sixty hours of that footage, unaware that Gil would be watching the tapes --

"The cameras at the lab suck," Greg pronounces. "Black and white. Terrible image quality. You could _so_ do better."

And that is -- suddenly too much to think about. Too much to _think_. "I was -- I was hoping we could talk about this after shift."

"I get a lunch break at midnight," Greg counters. "Come meet me."

Greg is the voice of temptation, and he says exactly what Gil want to hear. But he tries to stay with his plan. "I have no idea where I'll be at midnight."

"You don't get a lunch break?" Greg laughs at him, and Gil hates the tinniness of the phone speakers with a sudden passion. "Come on..."

"This is a bad idea." But he's going to agree, and Greg has to know that.

"No, it's a really, really _good_ idea."

Gil gives in. "Ok."

"Ok?"

"Ok."

*****

Greg is nervous as all get-out as he pulls into the parking lot. It's his first date with his boss -- just lunch, yeah, but still a first date. He'd had to ditch Sara carefully or she would've been along, and that would've been awkward. Ok, so 'ditch' in this case means 'point out a lead right before lunch,' but for Sara? It amounts to the same thing.

Not that a date with the boss isn't likely to be awkward. Greg figures they'll end up talking about work, and doesn't everyone tell you not to talk about work?

A quick scan of the diner shows he's gotten there first, damn it. He slides into the red fake-leather booth and orders a cup of coffee to get the waiter to go away. He starts paging through the menu for ideas. Nothing he can spill down his shirt, nothing with garlic, no bleu cheese -- not that he knows if Grissom kisses. Or wants to. Greg doesn't have much evidence to draw conclusions from, really, other than the very recent flirting and those stares...

Greg shivers at the memory and looks up -- yep, there's Grissom, dismissing the hostess with a wave of his hand. And he's staring again, that amazing intense stare that makes Greg feel nervous and clumsy and, at the same time, like he can't do anything unsexy. Like spilling the sugar would be this fascinating hot thing in a foreign movie.

Which almost makes him want to spill the sugar and find out. "You made it."

"As you pointed out, I _do_ get lunch breaks."

Grissom slides in across from him and looks briefly at the menu.

"We found where Mr. Hartley was killed." The words just kinda fall out of his mouth, and he wants to kick himself. "It looks like there may have been another car there. Sara said --"

"-- She called me," Grissom interrupts.

That's right. Cell phones. "Oh. Yeah."

This time the silence _is_ awkward, but he's saved by the waiter's arrival.

Grissom orders first, and Greg scrambles to remember what he'd decided on a few minutes before. "French fries." He's not sure he's hungry anyway.

"Is that all you're eating?" Grissom asks.

"Sure."

"Greg, you can't possibly function on that kind of diet." Grissom turns back to the waiter. "Farmer's omelet and a slice of apple pie, please."

He hands over his menu and the waiter walks off before Greg can get his mouth closed. "I can't believe you did that."

"You can take it with you, or leave it here, I don't care. But I don't want your low blood sugar on my conscience."

"I can't believe you did that," Greg says again.

Grissom raises an eyebrow. "It's not as if I threw your lunch in the garbage and bought you a new one," he says pointedly.

"Uhm. I..." Oh hell. "But it was clever when I did it. At least, I thought it was."

"I'm sorry, Greg. I didn't mean to offend you." Grissom looks at him very seriously. "I told you that I'm out of practice."

Greg sighs. This is more awkward than he could ever have imagined. "You did. We need to work on that."

"I'm amenable to that." Grissom shifts in his seat. "But we need to see each other outside of work."

"I'm game for that. Hence the meeting you here."

"That isn't quite what I meant."

"What do you mean?"

It's Grissom's turn to sigh. "I'd feel more comfortable if we both didn't have to go back to work."

That... sounds like an invitation to Greg's admittedly biased ear. Something that involves breaking out of work mindset, maybe running wild. He's not sure what a wild Grissom would look like, but he wants very badly to find out. "We've got an hour."

Grissom shakes his head. "I have approximately forty minutes, and less than that if my phone rings."

"Turn it off."

"Greg..."

Something in Grissom's tone makes Greg realize he can win this argument. He could get Grissom to turn off his phone. Call in sick, maybe play hooky for the rest of the night. Griss is practically begging to be talked into it.

It's a little scary for a first date. "All right, _be_ the responsible supervisor then."

He's expecting Grissom to be relieved or disappointed. What he gets is the stare again. "Is that why you're flirting with me?"

"No!" But it's hard to say that. He really wants to say yes, anything. Would Griss think it was hot? "Of course not," he adds shakily.

"I'm not judging you, Greg. It's just a question."

He says it with a calm face and a totally neutral tone -- and that piercing stare that just makes Greg want to bare his belly like a puppy. "Then -- maybe, just a little?"

"This is a mistake." He watches Grissom's hands clench around his coffee mug. "We shouldn't be doing this during work hours."

Again, he says it like a question, like he's just asking for permission to cut loose. And there's only so much temptation Greg can resist in one night. "But we are."

"Greg." Grissom is shaking his head, but he's not leaving. "I _stalked_ you around the lab last night --"

"-- I know --"

"-- And Catherine called me out on it."

Whoa. That cools Greg's thoughts a bit. "She did?"

Grissom nods. "She told me in no uncertain terms to keep it away from the job."

"But she didn't wig out about it?" Greg asks.

"She suggested I ask you out."

Greg tries to put _that_ in perspective. Sara doesn't know; she isn't acting strange enough. And no one else has hinted at it; someone would have made a joke if the lab knew. So Catherine isn't spreading it around. _And_ she's encouraging Grissom. He decides it's a little uncomfortable to have your teammates setting you up with the boss, but it's _way_ better than the alternatives.

Grissom's gone serious again, and Greg knows he's only got about five minutes until the waiter comes back over and interrupts them again. If he lets the subject change, that'll be it for tonight, and he sure as hell doesn't want to leave it here. So he makes a decision.

"I liked it," he says, looking straight at the other man. "I liked you watching me."

"Greg."

That brings back the intense look, and that same thick feeling like everything he does is foreign and sexy. He has to adjust himself in his pants, and Gil's eyes track over and down -- and that's _it_, that's really as much of Gil Grissom sitting right over there being turned on that Greg can handle without doing something. Though he isn't quite up to pawing the man in the booth of the restaurant

So he smiles just as seductively as he can and slides out of the booth. It's difficult to saunter when you're hard in jeans, but he does his best, pretty damn sure Gil is watching his ass all the way down the aisle to the restroom.

He checks to be sure the stalls are empty and starts washing his hands to give himself something to do. When Griss hasn't come in by the time he's done -- even though he sings the alphabet song under his breath to make sure to wash all the germs away -- he shuts the water off and tries to think a little more clearly. Well, as clearly as he can under the circumstances. He's willing to cut himself some slack, here.

He can't be sure Griss will follow him at all. Maybe Gil Grissom's just not the type to grope other men in bathrooms. Not everyone's into the semi-public sex, even if they like to look. In which case Greg has about three more minutes to stand around and figure out how to get back to the table without it looking like this had been an invitation or anything.

He turns the faucet back on, splashes water on his face, then runs his damp hands through his hair. What _had_ he been thinking, anyway?

Oh yeah, that's right. He'd offered his boss a blow job and he'd like to pay up, now, that's what he'd been thinking.

Greg grins wryly at himself in the mirror and grabs a paper towel to catch the last of the moisture on his hands. "Live and learn, Sanders." He crumples the paper towel into a ball and tosses it at the garbage bin. "Nothing but net!"

He starts to feel sheepish as the door opens on his words, but the discomfort shifts when he sees it's Grissom. Great. He doesn't know what to say, not now. It's really freaking wrong to flirt in the restroom if you just happen to bump into somebody, but maybe Grissom did follow him, just a little slowly, and --

And ok, Grissom walks right over to him, which is a good thing, and probably means he can stop feeling awkward just any minute now. Except Grissom's not kissing him, or even looking at him like he wants to rip Greg's clothes off. No, it's much more the way Grissom looks at scenes, like he's seeing everything in the bathroom and everything in Greg's head all at once, and he's really not at all sure whether to like it a lot or point out that they're both supposedly off the clock --

When Grissom lifts both of Greg's hands up to his face and _sniffs_ them. "You fixed your hair."

"I --"

"You took too long," Grissom observes, still in that same detached voice. "I wondered what you were doing in here."

Grissom steps closer, and Greg's hands find themselves on the other man's sides. He feels his hair nuzzled, then puffs of air as Gil moves behind his ear, down around his collar -- "Are you smelling me?"

"The human sense of smell is keener than most people realize..."

Greg shifts back. He feels the edge of the sink press against his ass, and pulls Gil up against him. Big man, soft around the edges, but there's muscle under there. Gil feels so solid, and warm.

"... and closely related to the sense of taste."

"Oh, god."

Grissom's tongue is scraping along on the side of his neck. Greg decides that jeans are the hottest, cruelest torture devices on the face of the planet, and only the cold line of the sink keeps his head together enough to say "Not here" and shove Gil back.

He doesn't give Gil a chance to wonder about that, though, just starts pushing him back into one of the stalls. Greg doesn't care which one, he just wants the body contact and the movement and the quick biting kisses he can't help moaning into.

When the stall door closes, Greg doesn't care if it latches. Not when there are more kisses, and Grissom pulling his shirt collar aside and licking him _there_. Greg can't find a place for his hands. He just keeps moving them up and over and around at speeds he'd find embarrassing --

If Gil didn't seem to be into it, humming and biting at Greg's neck like he wants to feel the shape of him with his teeth.

Greg fumbles with the buttons on his own shirt to give Gil more room, and _that_ makes Gil pull back.

"What?" He's gonna ask what's wrong, but nothing in Gil's face says 'stop.' In fact, it kinda says 'I wanna fuck your brains out,' which makes Gil being all the way on the other side of the stall just totally wrong.

"Go ahead."

"What --"

"Take your shirt off."

And that makes the light bulb go off in Greg's head, what with the stalking him at the lab and the hot staring now focused on the space between his fingers and the buttons.

"Sure. Yeah." Greg starts unbuttoning, shakily at first. "You like to look at me."

"I want to know everything about you," Gil says, like he's saying the same thing.

"Everything?" Greg asks, laughing from sheer adrenaline. "I like habanero salsa better than jalapeno." Wacthing Gil's eyes follow the line of skin appearing behind his fingers is too much like driving off a cliff. Greg has to look away, but it gives him the courage to run the heel of his hand down the bulge in his jeans. _Damn_, but he wants Grissom to touch him.

But Gil moans like Greg's touching _him_, and that's almost good enough.

Greg slides the shirt off his arms as smoothly as he can, then holds onto it. He doesn't really want to drop it on the floor, but --

Gil takes it out of his hands absently, eyes flickering over Greg's torso, cataloging. "You're flushed."

"Blood flow." Greg grins. He's not above handing out a straight line once in a while. Gil's eyes flick up and he smiles back, but he doesn't follow up on the joke.

Greg's not sure he'll be able to say much that makes any sense, either. His hands find the button of his jeans, and just getting them open is gonna feel so good. Having Gil right there, watching him --

There's a second ring before he recognizes the noise as his phone, still clipped to his belt. "Fuck." He fumbles with it and finally manages to turn the ringer off. "Sorry. Where were we?"

Grissom lifts a wry eyebrow. "I think you were about to --" He's interrupted by _his_ phone.

"Fuck," Greg says again.

It's gratifying to see that Grissom has trouble with his own phone. Less so when he flips it up and answers it.

"Sara?"

"Oh, hell," Greg mutters quietly and checks his phone -- sure enough, Sara's number is first on his message list.

"Good work," Grissom is saying calmly. "I'll be there in half an hour."

When he hangs up, Greg says, "Don't tell me -- she cracked the case?"

Grissom nods. "Apparently. Brass is picking up the suspect. Sara wants to share the good news."

"So who is it?"

Gil shrugs. "She said it would ruin the surprise. Let's go."

"Oh no, not right now --"

But Grissom is already handing Greg his shirt, one hand on the stall door. "Not at work."

"Damn it, Griss --"

"Later, Greg. I promise."

*****

"Grissom."

Sara grabs him as soon as he walks into the station. There is the usual traffic up and down the hallways, slowed only a little by the late hour.

"We should wait for Greg," he tells her. It's a deliberate obfuscation rather than a lie, since he knows that Greg was driving right behind him most of the way from the diner.

Meeting Greg at the diner -- and Gil folds the sharp edges of those memories _right_ into the euphemism like an envelope for photographs he doesn't want to consider right now -- had been reckless. He's still not sure why he agreed, or why he let things -- 'go so far' is another useful euphemism, another pocket for his thoughts, and he wonders how many more he's going to need before the night is through.

Thankfully, he's well-known for paying less than his full attention to conversations. Sara's expression is amused, and not the least suspicious, when she waves her hand in front of his face.

"Grissom? Greg's right behind you."

He makes a non-commital noise and doesn't turn around. Actually looking at Greg might be more than he can manage at the moment.

"So tell us, O brilliant one," Greg says, "who-dunit?"

Sara's smile is very self-satisfied. "Earlier," she says, "Greg pointed out that we'd never checked to see if Mrs. Hartley's car was actually in the shop."

"And was it?" Grissom prompts.

"Well, yes, but the shop owner," Sara glances at her notes, "-- a Mr. Reynolds -- told me they loaned her a car to use while hers was being repaired. She returned it the day after her husband was murdered."

"You can't have processed the car this quickly." Greg's comment is obviously jealous, and Gil glances at him. Very, very briefly. Greg is _frowning_.

"I didn't have to." Sara's grin becomes even more smug. "Mrs. Hartley? Took the car through the car wash. But she forgot to take her clothes and the murder weapon out of the trunk."

It's beautifully timed. They all turn around to watch the guards escorting Mrs. Hartley down the hall to the holding cells.

"Congratulations." Grissom's smile encompasses both of them, but he's looking at Greg this time, and sees the younger man slump a little.

"Yeah. Congratulations," Greg repeats.

Sara turns back to look at Greg more carefully. "What?"

"You're the one who cracked the case," Greg points out.

The look she turns on him is still satisfied, but is more than a little sympathetic. "You pulled your weight, hotshot. Don't worry. You can catch the next one."

She punches him in the shoulder, an obvious, if somewhat uncomfortable, attempt at camaraderie, and leaves them standing there in the hallway. Catherine has pointed out several times that Sara is as often clueless about social niceties as Grissom himself. Perhaps they should compare notes on how to avoid creating interpersonal tangles.

"The next one. Right," Greg mutters to his shoes.

Tangles such as the one Grissom is in at the moment. Greg isn't walking off, and neither is he. Which suggests --

"I'm sorry, Greg." Sometimes an apology works.

"That was _my_ lead. Mine." Greg sighs. "Or it should have been."

The hallway is not the place for this conversation, Grissom is certain. He's just not sure he could continue it if they moved to his office. "Greg --"

"No, you're totally right," Greg breaks in, still not meeting Grissom's gaze. "Work at work, right?"

Oh. Greg is expecting a lecture on irresponsibility. Grissom knows that, as his supervisor, he _should_ give that speech.

He'll have to settle for the fact that Greg is obviously chastizing himself. "Greg, if you don't want to --"

"_No_." That breaks Greg's fascination with his shoes, makes him look up and smile. "Just -- later, right?" It isn't a happy smile, but it qualifies.

Grissom nods back at him, although he's not sure exactly what he's agreeing to. At least he'll have the opportunity to find out. "Later."


End file.
